


After You

by TastesLikeCream



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Caretaker Aragorn, Female Bilbo, Gen, M/M, Young Bilbo Baggins
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-22
Updated: 2018-02-18
Packaged: 2018-03-02 21:36:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2826911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TastesLikeCream/pseuds/TastesLikeCream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aragorn accepts responsibility for a fauntling following an attack on the Shire. </p><p>It sits empty until the arrival of dwarves who determine the Shire could become their new home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LadyLaran](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyLaran/gifts), [Kami_no_Namida](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kami_no_Namida/gifts).



> Hello!
> 
> Inspiration for this story was revived from the lovely comment which Dragondealer left behind. I am very much appreciative and thank everyone for their support!
> 
> I cannot express enough love or thanks to the lovely people here on ao3.
> 
> Disclaimer: I neither own ‘The Hobbit’ nor am I profiting from this.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aragorn buries the Shire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own ‘The Hobbit’ nor am I profiting from this.
> 
> Just a little warning: this chapter does have some graphic depictions.

Bilbo whimpers, shrinking beneath the shelf. Her parents hard work is displayed here in the cellar: dried flowers, herbs, jellies and preserves. Her mother is putting on an entirely different display right now, though. 

Belladonna Baggins is still wearing her nightgown. Her curls are mussed and damp from her post dinner bath. The glowing blue sword is something new, something almost frightening to Bilbo. She wonders if her father knows about this. She wonders whether anyone knows. If not, her mother is a better secret keeper than she thought. 

“We’re going to play a game,” she calls. “You must remain down here until someone comes to remove you.”

“Does the game have rules?”

“Yes, it has a very important rule. Whoever comes to collect you must know your name. We love you, Bilbo.”

She closes the cellar doors before Bilbo can respond. 

Sleep is impossible despite the pillow and blanket her mother keeps stashed for the long nights of work. Bilbo tries the tricks from her father: telling herself stories and naming every flower she knows. Pacing the cellar only makes her dizzy and uncomfortable. 

The cellar does its best to muffle whatever games her parents are playing, but she still hears snatches. Everyone is playing, neighbors included. No one seems to be winning. Everyone only seems to be wailing and sobbing. Then everyone goes quiet.

-

Aragorn hears tale of how beautiful, how peaceful the Shire is. Tonight, their fields are overflowing with dead Wargs. Their tongues are swollen. Once he squints, he can see the remnants of foam. 

Their gardens are trampled and stained. Hobbits clutch forks, gardening tools, knives and spoons. A few appear to have slit their necks, their wrists with broken glass. Some hold their breath as he walks past while others violently cough and spew blood. 

“We never meant for this to happen,” a woman rasps. “We were only attempting to protect ourselves.”

“What happened?” Aragorn demands, scanning her for treatable wounds. 

“We began noticing Wargs approaching our homes. It was only a precaution: lace meats with unpleasant herbs. They would become ill and no longer desire to search for food here.”

Someone stops coughing. Another begins choking on blood. The woman blinks furiously. 

“We never meant to kill them,” she whimpers. “We only wanted them to stay away.” 

“Was this attack planned?”

The woman tries laughing only to turn her head and spit. 

“Someone was watching us. They waited until everyone was preparing for bed. They waited for us.”

“Is there anything I can do to ease the pain of passing?”

“I only ask you bury our bodies. I wish to be buried alongside my husband, Bungo. He has a small scar on his arm from when he attempted to handle my sword.”

“Is there anything else?”

“Leave the Wargs. Something else will find use for their bodies whether it be good or bad. Find the smial with a green door and enter its cellar. My daughter is hiding there, but you must call her by her name: Bilbo.”

Aragorn waits until her chest stills. He waits until the rattling coughs stop. He searches for Bungo only to find some are missing limbs. Some are missing pieces of their faces. 

He ducks into a shed hidden behind a smial. The gardening tools are scattered, but he manages to find a shovel on the cluttered floor. 

Digging graves is a tedious process, especially for this many creatures. Aragorn pauses between placing bodies to peel their eyes down. Some bodies seem especially small, too small, he thinks. There is nothing admirable about his work. But there is a small sense of peace. 

He bows his head, “Find peace on this new journey. Travel together and seek eternal rest.”

Their smials have managed to escape most of the carnage. A few are scratched and dented. Some have broken windows and trampled gardens. Some will need to be scrubbed down. The green door is one of them.

The cellar doors are painted green, too, albeit cleaner than the entrance. Opening them takes only a hard tug. Aragorn listens: a startled gasp which melts into a yawn. A mattress whines as someone, Bilbo, rolls over. 

The steps are loud and creaky, but sturdy enough to hold his weight. Bilbo stays still. 

“Bilbo?” He calls.

She yawns again. The mattress whines as she slides off. 

“You’re not my papa.”

Her statement is more curious than frightened. She watches with wide, chestnut eyes. The only indication of herbnerves: the hand fiddling with the hem of her nightgown. 

“I am not,” he agrees. “I am Aragorn. Would you like to go back inside?”

Bilbo nods, stretching her arms up. Aragorn lifts her and tolerates the curious rubbing, pulling and poking. 

“Is he inside?” Bilbo asks, running her fingers over his stubbled cheeks. 

“No, little one, he is not inside. Yavanna invited him home tonight. Yavanna invited many home tonight.”

Bilbo nods her understanding, though she does not understand until she searches everywhere. And hard as he tries, Aragorn fails to forget the unearthly wall which follows.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aragorn and Bilbo adjust to their new life together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own: ‘The Hobbit’ nor am I profiting from this.

Bilbo screams herself hoarse. Eventually her screams dissolve into hiccups into dry sobs into gasps. Aragorn sits on the floor and rocks her back and forth. His grip is admittedly tighter than what he would use on a baby or calm child, but a loose hold seems to cause her panic to intensify. Eventually, her thumb becomes enough to pacify her. 

“Do you like games, Bilbo?” He asks. “Would you like to play one now?” 

A milky glow is beginning to peek in through the windows. Her nightgown sleeves are dirty with snot from her earlier sobbing. In the light, he can see how swollen and red her face is. His boots have tracked mud across the floor. His legs are tingling, his back aches from hunching. 

Aragorn tries again. “Would you like to play a game?” 

The thumb sucking slows down, but does not stop. Her grip on his cloak tightens with her nod. Standing up is a slow, careful process on tingling, uncertain legs. 

“You must sit down for this part,” he says. “This game requires a plate and napkin.”

Bilbo points him around the kitchen. Plates are in the cupboards. Hers are on the bottom. Napkins are in the right drawer. Her panicked shrieking means the napkin is special. She claims her napkin with an excited rasp. Searching the pantry is easier. Aragorn shifts through blocks of cheese. One shelf down has jars and jars of honey, jams and jellies. Another shelf down are the fruits and vegetables. Bread sits on the bottom shelf.

Truthfully, her plate is more honey than bread. Even with its mushiness, eating is a long process. Each piece is mouthed before she breaks it down enough for swallowing. She skates her fingers through the honey, popping them into her mouth and slurping loudly.

“Would you like to play another game?” He whispers. “I have to use the napkin.”

Unlike earlie, nothing is particularly special in the napkin now or she is too tired to rasp until he finds the right one. The only fuss he gets is a tired whine as he runs it over her mouth. 

“Come, little one.” He lifts her. “No more games for now.”

Bilbo settles onto his shoulder with a final sniffle. 

-

Bilbo guides their new routine. She no longer screams save for the nightmares. She does wander the house, searching as if her parents are the ones playing a game. Aragorn is asked to produce sunlight and breakfast whenever she decides. His bedroom is the sitting room floor as the furniture is too short, too small. 

Seven meals are a requirement even if he doesn’t partake in them. Bilbo slips him biscuit crumbs, cheese, fruit and even spoons overflowing with jelly. Today, she offers him a handful of eggs. 

“You need to eat more,” she declares, dropping the eggs onto his plate, “Eat it.” 

“I do not eat the same as you, little one.” 

She sits quietly for a moment. She grabs some eggs from his plate, squeezing until yellow bleeds between her fingers. 

“Does Yavanna feed mama and papa?” She shoves the squashed eggs into her mouth. 

The easy answer is yes. I don’t know will invite more questions. No will cause her to regress backward. He waits until she finishes chewing before he answers. 

“I believe Yavanna returns her children to their gardens. Should her children become ill, either in winter or through other causes, Yavanna calls them home. Once healed, they’re returns them to their gardens.” 

“I want to see the gardens.” 

-

Bilbo grips his cloak as they step outside. Their smials still need cleaning. Their weapons are still scattered about. Their gardens are trampled. 

“Mama had a sword,” she announces. “I don’t know what papa had.” 

A small scar on his arm from the once he attempted to wield her sword. But he doesn’t say this. 

“Did he enjoy gardening?” 

She points to a relatively clean smial. They love gardening. The smial across from them loved baking even though it was terrible. That smial with the ugly door belonged to a newly married couple. The bride wore a silky blue ribbon around her wrist. She tugs on his cloak in a clear command: come on. 

Bilbo picks up the discarded forks, gardening tools, knives and spoons as she talks. Most go into her pockets. She pauses to examine them before she puts them into her pocket. Some are too mangled for fixing. 

Aragorn gathers the broken glass and nods along to her stream of chatter. She shoves a handful of spoons into her pocket, chewing on her lip before she asks him.

“How did everyone lose their stuff?”

“It was not intentional. They were only trying to protect themselves.” 

“How did you find everyone?” 

“I was patrolling when I came upon a dead creature that did not belong here.”

The dead creature does not matter. What matters is that it has ruined everything. Her pockets clang as she leads him into the next area. What matters now is finding the sword.

Mama’s sword.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Sunday!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aragorn and Bilbo go through the glory box and receive a visit from the fireworks man.

The sword no longer glows blue. Someone has ruined it with grime and sludge that Aragorn promises can be removed. His brow puckers in what she suspects is disgust as he tilts the sword back and forth. 

“It was a secret,” she announces. “Her sword was secret till the cellar.” 

“Was there ever a place where she kept special things? A special thing could be something she received from you or your papa.”

Bilbo nods vigorously and begins tugging roughly on his hand. Aragorn is forced to bend and duck as she explains this is where everything special goes: the glory box. It is pretty albeit relatively plain save for a few flowers carved into the glossy wood. It has been well cared for between its users, free from scratches or dings or dents. 

Bilbo goes quiet as she pushes the lid up. This is the place where mama put her secrets. Honestly, she expects a lot more swords. 

Her baby blanket sits on top. Age and multiple washings have removed most stains. She can still see the rusty colored spots from her first nose bleed after faceplanting onto the floor. Papa’s shirt sits underneath as he was quick to follow her with a fainting spell. 

Dried flowers shriveled and pale hide between maps and rusted gardening tools. Tucked among the clutter is a pile of gauzy white fabric. She knows the importance behind a wedding dress, specifically that looking is more important than actually touching. 

“I see this is a very special place,” Aragorn whispers. “The sword will be clean before I return it.”

“Could I take something or would she be mad?”

“Would taking something from the box bring you comfort?”

Her nod is quick and small as she reaches into the glory box. She removes the blanket and ruined shirt and holds them to her chest as if worried they might disappear. 

“Now you have something from both of them. Come, let’s clean this up.”

-

The blanket and shirt provide more comfort than he can, especially in nightmares. It brings a new stability into their nightly routines. 

Bilbo wakes him less and less frequently with demands he produce breakfast and sunlight when she deems fit. Despite the comforts, her sleep schedule does not fully normalize. Bathroom trips and late snacks are normal causes for wake up. 

But the worst one is simply being unable to sleep. The long periods where she flips and rolls and even tries the tricks from her parents. The hours where even the comforts aren’t enough. 

Early morning light is beginning its tiptoe through the sitting room when she flops across Aragorn’s legs. 

“I didn’t sleep,” she announces. “I’m not tired, though.”

Aragorn presses his knuckles against his forehead. He wishes someone taught her about naps. Instead she stands up on his legs, wobbling back and forth as she marches up to his hip. Her toes dig into him like a bat on a tree limb. 

Finally he sighs, craning his neck to look at her, “I suppose you want breakfast?”

Her feet land with a solid thump. She is preparing to pull and tug him up from the floor when the firm knocks echo on the door. 

The pull and tug becomes a nervous squeeze. 

“Enemies never knock,” he promises. “I never met an orc or goblin with manners.”

Her grip loosens as she rewards him with a tight lipped smile. 

For her, approaching the door feels like the cellar night all over again. Only this time, mama and papa aren’t pulling her from the bed. She stands back as Aragorn pulls the door open. 

Someone, a man is crouching down. A gnarled hand clutches his staff as he drops lower and lower until he’s eye level with Aragorn. 

A long white beard hangs down his front. His eyes are a clear and friendly blue, surrounded with wrinkles which deepen as he smiles. 

“I was hearing rumors. A ranger was caring for a fauntling here in the Shire,” he says. “I see the ranger, but where is the fauntling? Is she hiding from me?”

The fireworks man. Mama reprimanded her for using a stick like a sword on him during that one birthday party. They were both laughing and petting her hair afterwards, though.

“You’re the fireworks man,” she cries, slipping past Aragorn, “He’s okay, Aragorn.” 

“I do far more than fireworks,” he grumbles. “I am Gandalf the Grey even if all you remember are my fireworks. May I come inside?” 

-

Bilbo runs off with his promise of a later fireworks display and agreement to watch his staff. Gandalf watches her from the sitting room window. His laughter is genuine even as she drags his staff behind her, but it dissolves into a somber expression as he turns to face Aragorn. 

“How is she adjusting? Does she suffer from nightmares or appear to be regressing?” 

“Bilbo is willing to perform some necessary tasks such as eating and bathing. She does fights sleep due to the nightmares, but seems to be sleeping better with the use of comfort items.”

“Bungo and Belladonna considered her advanced when compared to other children, but I suppose all parents do. I fear this could set her back and hinder her growth. Ten might seem high in man years, but the maturity level is slightly over six.” 

“Would it bring you comfort knowing what happened?”

This time his wrinkles deepen with sorrow. His mouth twists and his shoulders droop. Aragorn doubts even his staff could support his weight right now. 

“Were you able to recover her sword? Bilbo should eventually be trained how to fight should anything like this happen again,” he laughs. “There is no need for that expression. Start her off with a walking stick then move her up to a wooden sword when you feel she’s ready.”

An excited shriek carries through the window as she does around circle around the smial with the staff. 

“I’ve a feeling she would prefer you train her.”

“Oh, no, I can only perform fireworks. Besides, I said eventually she should be trained. I will return later for the promised fireworks.”

“Where are you going?”

“I must get the fireworks and find you new clothes. And in answer to your question: Bilbo is comfort enough.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 12/14/17
> 
> Semester is over! I’ll see everyone soon!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gandalf returns with visitors.

"I need more," Bilbo announces, pushing the now empty bowl across the table, "You have to pick something now."

Carrots and potato chunks bob and bump into one another in the giant stew pot. Aragorn shifts through mushrooms and mostly munched on celery. Supper time is creeping closer and closer – beef and vegetable stew with the fancy bowls, napkins, and spoons. Bilbo folds and unfolds a napkin while he picks through the mushroom piles. She snatches a piece of mostly eaten celery, crunching down before he can scold her. Spit and flecks of green spew from her mouth as she talks.

"A wizard can only bring adventure and mischief," she says. "Sometimes, a wizard can even make supper late. Papa thought adventures were scary and mischief was something for men. A person without a schedule could afford to be late." 

Four small mushrooms are deemed acceptable for the soup bowl while the celery is pushed aside. Bilbo picks through the pathetic pile. Most pieces have been nibbled on while others are too small for even stew. She manages to dig up two pieces when firm knocks echoes. 

"Enemies never knock," she parrots. "You've never met a goblin with manners."

Bilbo remains behind, though, sorting through mushrooms as he goes for the door. Her disappointed mumbles and sighs follow him down the hallway. 

Someone is shuffling back and forth outside the front door. Someone is talking - instructing another on how to properly wipe their boots. A squeaky voice complains about sore feet. 

"I am quickly losing patience," Gandalf calls. "Is this how guests are treated now?"

His staff is still sitting somewhere inside the smial. 

Aragorn finds no sternness or even frustration on his face when he pulls the door open. Gandalf moves into the smial first, shoving an armful of clothes against his chest. His extra guests, a trio of dwarves hover in the doorway.

Aragorn backs up as the smallest one wiggles free from between the larger dwarves. His cloak is too large with multiple stains and stitches. Someone has cut his bangs with an awkward choppy result. Even squatting down, even squinting he can only see freckles. 

"I am Ori," he squeaks. "Is this the part where I bow, Dori?"

"I believe there is never an inappropriate time to bow," Gandalf declares. "Formalities are not required among friends, though, especially not when everyone is so hungry and tired. I believe Bilbo could use some help sorting the mushrooms?" 

Ori chews on the inside of his cheek and glances back toward the dwarves lingering in the doorway, "Can I go?" 

A nod from one of them is enough safety and reassurance that he can wander away. Gandalf waits until his tentative footsteps quiet before he motions them inside. 

"Let us move into the sitting room; we have, much to discuss and mushroom sorting will only distract them for so long." 

-

Dori canvases the multiple sitting options but resigns himself to sitting in the doorway under the claim he can monitor both his brothers. Nori mumbles something under his breath akin to mother hen and resumes his impatient room circling. Gandalf, either accustomed to or unbothered to their behavior settles into an armchair and begins the discussion.

"Dori, Nori, and Ori come from Erebor which is currently under rule by King Thrór," he begins. "Erebor is quite prosperous, however, Dori and Nori have noticed unsettling behaviors from the king." 

Dori suddenly appears to be a sickly gray as he nods, "Thrór was always a fair ruler, but his desire for gold has become concerning. It began with miners working longer hours which was not initially concerning as he raised their wages. However, he began placing daily requirements on the miners. The first time someone was unable to meet their requirement, a dock in payment was received. Did you continue exhibiting an inability to meet the requirement, you were removed from the unit. Then Nori began hearing rumors." 

"Dwarves began claiming Thrór was giving them immunity in exchange for stolen gold. A dwarf who knew of another dwarf or family with gold or gems could report false crimes to the king," Nori says. "Thrór ordered their homes to be raided and belongings were taken for the investigation. Reporters could keep a small portion of the belongings."

"Leaving was a difficult decision," Dori murmurs. "Ori was receiving lessons from another dwarf, Balin, advisor to the king. Ori rarely drew attention to himself, and I suppose a dwarf can forget he's there."

"You take forever to tell the story," Nori interrupts. "Ori overheard several conversations between Balin and other advisors and counselors. Thrór's son and grandsons were discussing removing him from the throne due to his behaviors, and removing him took more time than Dori was willing to risk." 

"I made a visit to Erebor to see whether or not the rumors were true. It was during this visit Nori attempted stealing some pipe-weed. I did not plan on a severe punishment, but Dori offered red wine to settle things between us. I received information from them and allowed them to depart from Erebor with me." Gandalf says. "I've heard no further information."

"Do you expect more families to flee?" Aragorn asks. 

Everyone offers a tight shrug. One family feels a certain obligation to their king no matter what his behavior is like. A different family prefers not to wait for his behavior to improve. A few families have no options other than staying either due to age, money, or work. A shrug is easier than picking apart each family still in Erebor. 

"Erebor is far more suitable for a dwarf than the Shire," Gandalf says. "Erebor is no longer an appropriate option, though. I understand this will be an adjustment for everyone, but you're not the only ones going through this adjustment. It is important Bilbo interact with others aside from you, Aragorn. It is important Ori interact with others aside from his brothers. Try being patient with one another and expect many cultural blunders from the children," he stands, "I imagine the mushrooms and potatoes are completely gone now. Does anyone else object to carrot stew?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for how long this chapter took! I became buried under health problems, schoolwork, and writer's block. I am still not completely satisfied with this chapter, but I guess that is what comes from writing nothing but academic papers for the last few weeks...
> 
> Anyways, 
> 
> I am done with school until January 16th. I appreciate everyone's patience!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aragorn and Dori have a discussion and the brothers begin settling into the new environment despite a bump.

Bilbo maintains a steady stream of chatter for the otherwise quiet table. Ori already misses the mountains, but he thinks the flowers are pretty. Ori even plans on making a collection to show Mister Balin when he goes back to Erebor. You promised a fireworks show, Gandalf, did you forget? 

“A wizard never breaks promises,” he says. “I think everyone could benefit more from sleep than fireworks tonight, though. I’ve even seen you hiding a few yawns during this supper.” 

Bilbo purses her lips, but turns toward Aragorn, “Do I have to go to bed now?” 

“It is past bedtime,” he says. “Would you mind Gandalf tucking you in tonight? I must show our guests to their bedroom.” 

Bilbo resumes her chatter as she hops down from the table. I want a bedtime story with fireworks and elves. Do you know any stories about that? Make a story up, Gandalf. You know how to make things up, papa said so. 

Aragorn motions for them to leave their dirty bowls, cups, and plates on the table, “Would you like separate bedrooms or one together? I can provide either.” 

“One bedroom will be fine,” Dori decides. “Travelling has made us accustomed to sharing a room. Unless you want more supper, go get ready for bed. I’ll come to bed once I finish helping our host clean up.” 

Dori piles their dirty bowls, cups, and plates into individual stacks before his brothers can complain. He waits until he can hear packs rustling before he stops moving the piles around. 

“Nori could have bedtime instructions tattooed on the insides of his eyelids and forget them,” he grumbles. “I need to discuss a few things privately, though.” 

“Our discussion will remain private.”

“As Gandalf said, Nori attempted stealing pipe-weed during his visit. Even as a child, Nori stole anything he could whether he needed it or not. Our mother assumed it was a childhood phase – we were poor, and he saw other children with more, but he was finding satisfaction in the thrill of the act.”

“How do you feel about his work?” 

“I’ve never approved despite his extensive skill sets. I made enough to provide a comfortable life in Erebor while Nori provided extra for things like snacks, lessons, medicine, and name day presents.” 

“Is he going to attempt stealing anything from the house?” 

“Nori only steals things from people he knows when he wants attention. Stealing from a stranger is much easier. No one knows him, and anyone could be the thief is what he says,” he sighs. “Would you like help with the dishes?” 

“I’ll leave them until the morning; come, I’ll show you to your bedroom.”  
-

Ori calls the bedroom fancy – gigantic – even better than that one inn, remember it, Dori, Nori? Do you remember it? His brothers, either too stunned or too tired, can only gape as he circles the room, opens dresser drawers, and jumps back and forth between the two beds. 

“We can wash everything tomorrow,” Aragorn promises. “A bathroom is next door and I sleep in the sitting room should you need anything. Do you need anything before bed?”  
Ori lands across the bed with a flop, “Do I have to eat the green stuff like Bilbo?” 

“I’ll leave that up to your brothers, but she’s quite persistent,” he says and gives a final glance around the room, “Goodnight.” 

Dori nods briskly and moves to grab Ori before he can manage another jump. Nori mumbles a goodnight and dismisses him with a wave of his hand. 

Aragorn tiptoes away from their bedroom, pausing to listen for any sound leaking from Bilbo’s bedroom, but he only hears even breathing. He wanders further down the hallway and encounters the heady, thick odor of pipe smoke. 

“Bilbo fought sleep,” Gandalf announces as he wanders into the sitting room, “I think she was overwhelmed by all the excitement.” 

“Don’t forget the fireworks,” he teases. “I believe one show will keep her satisfied until the next visit.” 

“Fireworks will happen before I leave,” he promises. “I intend on staying long enough to make sure Dori, Nori, and Ori are settling in.”

“Shall I set up a bedroom for you, too?”

“I am comfortable right here,” he declares, “Now I suggest you sleep while you can.” 

-

The bump occurs over first breakfast. Bilbo and Dori are shoving more and more green stuff onto Ori’s already full plate. You can be done once you have one bite of the green stuff. Have a bite of this first – then try the green stuff, okay? Bilbo alternates between eating and insisting the green stuff isn’t some yucky trick. 

Dori scans the table for a napkin, “Is there a washtub available? I’d like to clean as many of our clothes as possible today.” 

Bilbo turns a sickly gray color and quits stabbing her food. Her breathing turns sharp and quick as her hand begins shaking against the plate. Aragorn kneels beside her and covers her hand with his. It does little to steady her shaking, though. 

“In the cellar,” she croaks, “You always keep it in the cellar, Bilbo. Keep it out of everyone’s way. Do I have to keep eating?” 

Aragorn peels her fingers away from the fork, “No, you may be excused. I believe Gandalf is preparing to visit with your mama and papa – why don’t you go join him?” 

Her face is still a sickly gray color. Her breathing is still sharp and nervous, but she manages a small nod. Bilbo practically tiptoes away from the dining room with her head down.

Dori looks back and forth between Aragorn and his fist clenched around the fork, “I didn’t mean to cause any conflict,” he whispers. “Should I go apologize to her?” 

Aragorn waits for the front door to creak open and close before speaking, “I assure you, her response is natural, and no one’s fault. Bilbo associates the cellar with the night she lost her parents, friends, and neighbors. I should warn you now: her nightmares might wake you. Her nightmares and emotional outbursts are no one’s fault, though.” 

Dori’s brow puckers with sympathy, “I understand, but that is a discussion for later. Hurry up and finish breakfast, Ori, we have laundry to do.”

-

Aragorn plucks spider webs and dead insects from the enormous washtub in the corner of the cellar. Even the soap bars stacked inside are covered with layers of dirt, dust, and webs. Dori hovers in the open cellar doors with his arms full of wrinkled clothing. 

“Would you like any help?” He calls, “I am known to be quite strong.” 

“I can manage, though I might need help once we fill it. Where are the children?” 

“Bilbo is still with Gandalf and he knows to keep her entertained until the laundry is complete. I sent Ori to wake up Nori and make him eat. I’d like to discuss something else with you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1/21/2018 - I hope everyone is doing well! I have resumed school which means updates are going to be slowing down. I do not have classes on Friday which means I will likely be working on writing on Friday-Sunday when my schoolwork allows. 
> 
> I have work on my next chapter started. I appreciate the patience!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aragorn and Dori have their discussion and learn how to make flower crowns.

Dori scrubs everything with a determined fury whether the stain warrants it or not. His cheeks flush pink and sweat dots his brow as he attacks a grass stain. He pauses only to ask for more soap or hand over the now clean clothing. 

“Laundry is calming,” he murmurs. “Nori has his work to keep him entertained while Ori has books. I have laundry and tea.”

Dori drapes the soaking trousers over the washtub and scratches at the knee, “You hardly seem like a tea drinker.”

“I prefer a pipe.”

“I tried a pipe once,” he laughs. “Mother was infuriated and broke the pipe. I received a severe scolding along with the dwarf who owned the pipe. I should’ve received a much harsher punishment, but she was days away from having Nori and was too exhausted for much else.” 

“Will she be joining you here?”

Dori stops scratching at the knee and drops the trousers back into the washtub, “No, our mother is receiving permanent care from a healer. For dwarves, babes are highly valued due to their rarity. Being with child, especially a healthy one is a blessing.”

“When did she become ill?” 

“Ori surprised us,” he sighs. “Mother struggled with eating and sleeping. I attempted making her weaker and weaker teas, but even those made her ill. A healer and midwife were finally able to make something that allowed her to eat small meals. Mother still struggled with eating enough, though. She was always exhausted and could lose an entire day to sleep.”

His knuckles are flushing an angry pink. Scrubbing harder might cause the skin to crack open and bleed. Soap bubbles threaten to form a silver skin atop the murky gray water. Aragorn is reaching for the washtub when he gruffly clears his throat and begins speaking again. 

“Healers and midwives made her stable,” he says. “Mother could eat and sleep and sometimes had enough energy to move from the bed.” 

Aragorn rests his hand on the washtub, but doesn’t pull it away, “Was she able to recover following his birth?” 

His laugh is forced and thin, “Ori managed another surprise with a difficult, early birth. Our mother survived the physical shock and trauma which his birth brought. Her body recovered with healers and midwives’ assistance, but her mind remained there. A whimper or cry could send her into hysterics. Even his sleeping made her nervous, because when was he going to wake up? When was he going to begin crying again?”

“Does he know?” 

His face softens into something almost peaceful, “I have an agreement with Nori: no keeping secrets concerning our mother. No, he shouldn’t know everything right now. Ori does know that his mother loves him but cannot take care of him right now. Her sickness doesn’t make him love her any less, though.” 

His expression nearly settles into complete peace, but its lost with the excited chatter and squealing from the children rushing from the smial. Nori appears a moment later, grumbling and combing his fingers through his tangled beard. He squints in their direction, grunting, before plopping himself onto the ground. 

Dori chuckles and pushes the wash bucket away. His clothing has become dirty with grass stains, his knuckles raw and red from the furious scrubbing. His skin must be ready to aching and ready to crack open, but he makes no complaints. He slings the still wet clothing over the washtub edge. 

“I say we take a break from laundry,” he lowers his voice. “I say Nori could use a break from the children. Could I trouble you for a tour?”

-  
Aragorn settles Bilbo onto his shoulders where she guides their tour. Her favorite neighbor who made the best cookies used to live in that smial over there. A dead Warg is currently making her garden smell bad, but it’s okay because Aragorn says different flowers will grow there. 

Ori unleashes a disturbed squawk and ducks his head, “Does the new house have anything in the garden?”

Bilbo digs her chin into his shoulder, “No, we only have flowers there. Aragorn says their bodies can feed new flowers or other hungry things.” 

Dori remains silent despite the obvious stench wafting from the gardens. He remains silent even as his brother presses closer and closer to his side, now suspicious of each smial. Bilbo is the one to break the silence, digging her heels into his side, a command to slow down as they approach the fields. Something else – someone else has come and taken the corpses for their purposes, but the pungent odor of death hangs right beneath the flower perfume. 

“I know how to make flower crowns,” she mumbles. “I can teach you.” 

Her heels dig in harder and harder, but she makes no attempts to climb down. Dori twists a loosening braid around his finger, but does not shove his brother away from his side, 

“Which flower makes the best crown?” 

Her sigh is disgusted, “Any flower can make the best crown. You have to know their language, though.”

Aragorn squeezes one of her ankles, “Bilbo, their home uses gems and rocks rather than flowers. How did you begin learning?” 

“I can teach everyone the color language.” 

Bilbo rattles off warnings as she effortlessly weaves her crown: never mix this purple and yellow together for someone you love. you should save red for someone that you really love. pink and white are okay for a parent or sibling, though.

Her forehead is beginning to glimmer with sweat. Her fingers are stained green and yellow. Dirt and mud streak her cheeks and forehead from where she continues wiping sweat away. Ori alternates between glancing at her hands and looking at his own fumbling hands, struggling in weaving his flower crown together. Aragorn and Dori take the occasional glance, though their crowns are far more intact than his. 

Ori mashes his lips together as more and more petals are shed from his crown, “Could I give this one to Nori?”

Dori cuts in before anyone else can respond, “Nori will wear it everywhere.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve begun work on chapter seven! Thank you so very much for all the bookmarks, kudos, and comments!

**Author's Note:**

> I am currently in the process of re-writing this story. I will attempt working on a chapter a day, but no guarantees for how often and when I post.


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